


Darling, What Holds You Down?

by gimmeshellder



Series: Volley and Pearl, but like, not necessarily together [2]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Manipulative Behavior, POV Second Person, Polyamory, big Anthy energy, bughugging and bone collecting, gem placement (head)canons?, mild sexual references, typical pearl baggage applies, yeah sorry lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: You know how you feel about Pearl. You just don't understand why she's being sodifficult.
Relationships: Bismuth/Pearl (Steven Universe), Pearl/Pink Diamond's Pearl (Steven Universe), Pearl/Pink Diamond’s Original Pearl | Volleyball
Series: Volley and Pearl, but like, not necessarily together [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699654
Comments: 36
Kudos: 82





	Darling, What Holds You Down?

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS AS EVER to [ TheBlindBandit ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlindBandit/) for endless jamming and idea-pulling-apart and commiseration and general badassery!
> 
> This can be read stand-alone, or as a continuation of [In-Bounds and Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793237) (which, generally, I guess you can say the same of all the stuff I'm putting out)
> 
> Somewhere after "Volleyball" but before the finale natch

There’s been a tiny shift in your time together: the skin-to-skin has tapered down. No more sprawling, drowsy hours alone, curled up in her room, counting eyelashes. No more nosing at the fine little hairs on the back of her neck as you spoon. Maybe Pearl is trying to wean you off the… the _clinginess,_ or she’s growing restless, or just bored. But she still always holds your hand.

Just fingertips, linked today. She’s pointing with her other hand at something, and you hear her voice over the surf, but her fingers are laced between yours, so kind, and so careful, and all you can think about is what noise she would make if you pulled one between your lips and sucked.

“... last fall,” she’s saying, “hundreds of years old, which was _very_ exciting for Steven…” amused, so sweet, “-- took them to a nearby museum --”

_Be present. Listen to her._

You try. You do! You practice the thing from meditation class, the -- the special breathing. You pull dewy air in through your nose, and down to your gem, and hold it. Then you let it go again.

Pearl doesn’t. Doesn’t _need_ to... not around you. Oh, sure, you hear her sigh or tut when a puff of dust spits from shifting items in the cupboard -- the tickle when she has to take in air to laugh against your cheek (and they get _hot_ , remembering) -- but Pearl’s so… so _composed_ compared to you. Confident, and kind, and -- and so _ready_ when something comes up. When a boiling gaggle of new quartzes crunched through the benches near the amphitheater in a frothy monster pile, Pearl darted across the stands to snap them into shape with the same poise and aplomb of scooping dust bunnies in the bin. Really, it’s enough to get any pearl a little weak in the knees.

Maybe it would help? To imagine her, doing it too? The special breathing. Needing to gather herself. If Pearl breathed in deep, and slow… and let it go... and again... and again...

(Picture, popping hot: Pearl hunched double, on knees and elbows, panting, open-mouthed --)

\-- and a stripe of heat paints you from gem to throat as you swallow, _stars_ \--

“Humans drop things here,” she’s still saying, ( _Listen to her!)_ , “and then _other_ humans will come by with these… _terribly_ unwieldy, rudimentary electromagnetic transmitters that can _only_ detect metal, to try and recover the items.” She laughs. Your gem tries to pirouette. “It’s a hobby for some of them.”

The cozy grin she aims over her shoulder takes the feet right from under you -- _ugh!_ \-- and you stumble, over _nothing --_ and Pearl catches you but just barely.

“Oh! Are you alright?”

“Yes! Yes.” You clear your throat, smiling tight. You feel fluttery. “I must’ve… um...” You bend at the waist and grab the first thing you can blame it on. Cold, hard, poky all over. “Must’ve been this.”

“Ah,” she laughs again, gentle, “ _of course._ Yes, shells are masterful at getting underfoot…”

But fondness creeps into her voice as Pearl reaches for it. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” She traces the wide mouth of it with a fingertip, following the spiral it makes. “They’re some of the most beautiful math I’ve seen.”

It almost hurts. It does, it aches, but it’s so _sweet-_ feeling -- she’s so precious, so _pretty,_ and your chest _squeezes_ near enough to hurt. That’s new, too. Doesn’t make the special breathing very easy.

You wet your lips, and try to steady your voice. “D-do you collect shells, too?”

“Oh... I used to.” Almost shy. “I felt little need once we settled on the beach.” But then her mouth flattens. She shoots you a tart look from the side of her eye. “What precisely do you know about me collecting things?”

You try to smuggle your giggle into your hand. When she cocks her eyebrow, you outright _laugh_ and take off for the waterline, because you know Pearl can’t resist following, careful for the shells.

“What are you doing!” she shouts, but it’s grinning -- she’s laughing, too -- and she even follows you up to the knees into the waves, the both of you kicking up a chaos of color and refracted light as the one only sun settles into the water.

It’s so good. You never knew it could be this good. There’s not enough room in you for it all.

When the splashing calms, and the rush leaves your ears, she’s telling another human story.

Salt in your mouth. From the water -- from the smiling and the thrashing around. Even here, salt tastes like salt.

Once you catch your breath, you don’t-quite-ask, “You spend a lot of time with humans nowadays.” You’ve smelled the perfume.

“I suppose I’m making up for lost time.” She hums. “I used to find them much more… mm… consternating. It’s gotten far easier to appreciate them… the whimsy, the -- _bwuh?!”_ She balks, gawps down at her wet front.

You snicker and wade away with seawater running down your arms.

“Oh. _I_ see.” (Stars: that voice.) “You won’t get away _that_ easily.”

A burst of water gushes up at your hip and you _shriek!_ laughing, it drenches you to the skin. You shuffle against the pressure as a wave pulls out, nearly toppling you. “I-I didn’t know you could control water!”

“I can’t.” Her look is smug enough to rack the imagination. And when her _fingers_ curl -- “ _Sand,_ however...”

She shows you no mercy for the cheap shot, and you both wind up tangled on the shore, giggling, delirious and breathless with it -- and the sea pulling out around your feet, shaping the sand. Before she’s even caught her breath all the way, Pearl struggles upright to fold her legs beneath herself and explains how _that_ works, the “tidal pull” -- the moon’s involved, somehow (she points it out in the sky, just the one) -- and yes, you’re tracing the scant curve of her cheek with your eyes, and handsome jut of her proud nose, and the soft seam where her lips meet -- but you’re listening, too, yes. You are. (You try.)

By the time she’s finished, the seawater’s dried on you. Your skin feels pleasantly scrubbed all over. Like you’re glowing, and new.

Is hers the same? Would she let you feel? Let you trace her?

Your fingers itch.

“You probably can, too,” she says suddenly.

You flinch; you blink up at her.

She laughs once. Gentle. Flourishes her hand in a way that might make you shiver. “Control sand.”

Maybe she won’t notice a little headshake. Just to come to your senses. “Me?” (Or a quick clear-of-your-throat.) “How?”

“I suspect all pearls can.” She brings her hand down from its flourish, studying it. “I didn’t discover it until many years on Earth… but I believe it has to do with our processing.”

Oh. It makes sense, really. At some point, each and every pearl was just a tiny speck of the stuff.

That means Pearl… and that means you, too.

You hold your hand over the shore, still warm from the sun. The sand. Each speck its own pearl, if they wanted to be. If they could. Stars, could _you_ make more pearls here? No, concentrate: and you screw up your chin, and _focus…_ she made it look so _easy_ …

So you’re a little miffed when she bursts into giggles. “Well! -- you didn’t exactly explain how!”

Her laughs curb behind her hand where she smiles at you, good enough to glow. (Your chest goes melty.) “Mm… you’re reminding me of me.”

Ah… this again. The melty feeling mixes to something stiff. But you tip your chin and wave, a little _Go on, then._

She draws her knees inward. Holds out her hand; curls it. As though in a grip. But she doesn’t start, right away. Pearl watches her own hand while the waves come and go. They spill in, and they pull, and something clangs, out on the water.

“I didn’t always have a spear.” Softer than the shore. Nearly foggy. “For a long, long while, I didn’t know pearls could manifest weapons.”

Come to think of it… you never had, either.

“ _No one_ did," as though she heard the thought. Her hand clenches. A proper fist, now. “I had swords, swords, swords… and I became so _skilled_ with them. It was what I had, so it was what I used. I had so many. I thought, if one ever gets taken from me, I better be certain I have another.” Her head shakes, not quite rueful. “If ever a pearl could run out of room, I would have done it. I liked to organize them up by specific advantage, starting with lightweight in close range...”

She clears her throat; then shoots you a wry look, and snorts. “Listen to me... rambling on. My point is,” she clips on before you can protest that you _like_ hearing her talk (really, you love it), “there’s so much for you to piece together, now... so much to discover. I’m lucky to be here with you for it.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was a wistful smile. “It makes me happy to see.”

Calm between the two of you. Just easy. The sea rolls in, purring, pulling, and she watches with her tiny smile, and you want so _badly_ to take her hand again.

Your fingers tighten over nothing. “Lost in thought?”

“Mm... a bit. They’re good thoughts, though.”

 _About me?_ But you know better.

“No wonder, with your gem where it is.” You tap your own forehead and wiggle an eyebrow. “So brainy.”

“Hmmm.” There’s a skeptical tang in the look she levels at you. Sizzly, sideways. “You say that as though you don’t have thoughts of your own.”

“I have thoughts, sure. I’ve got _plenty_.” You stretch your legs out and recline, propping your hands in the sand. Maybe you can sneak a brush of fingers against hers. “But it’s different. They don’t get as much say, you know? But _you?_ You’re, you know… _up_ there.”

“But you understand that that isn’t _everything,_ right?” She turns more fully to you. Almost urgent. “We aren’t limited by those things. Not by our station, or gem… or where it may be.”

“Hmmm,” you echo the skeptical crackle. She laughs. “I know what it means to have a gem in my body. I’m okay with it.”

You pretend not to watch as her gaze trails down to the pearl in your waist. Tingles spread. Oh, goodness. You hope she reaches. Hope she touches it.

“It’s not at all a bad thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“In fact -- in fact, I’ve noticed body gems seem to have a much easier time adjusting to organic environments like Earth.” She hasn’t turned away from you yet. She even leans a little closer. "You'll likely learn things I've yet to."

Your feet wave, side to side. The stretch is nice. And it distracts from the heat that wants to fill in your cheeks. “And ooey-gooey feelings, feelings, feelings. Sooo messy.”

It’s hard not to remember Pink. She was just like you…. or, well. You were just like her. You were _made_ for her. Sometimes it felt like some perfect circuit closing, being together -- _with_ her -- a heavenly blur, it didn’t matter -- marvelous noise and colorful mess and wasted time.

You know that you… probably _shouldn’t_ miss Pink. But there’s knowing, and then there’s you.

“Feelings are good. However… however they might feel.” Pearl’s eyes shift, and she wets her lips. And you can’t look away from them.

Then she smiles -- just a wry slice -- and sends a tender ignition up through your arm and lurching dizzy to your middle when she takes your hand at last. Oh. “They mean we’re still here.”

You want to kiss that small, frail smile. You want to feel her laugh against your lips.

But instead you pout them and bat your eyes and tut, “What a level-headed response.”

“Level… oh, _you._ ” She squeezes your hand and you squeeze back. “You’ve gotten good at that. The wordplay.”

“Thanks.” Grinning, you scoot closer until you’re shoulder-to-shoulder. The contact creates a hungry itch along your side that wants you pressed against her. “Maybe I should teach a class, too.”

“But you know, that’s actually a course of study. As a subset of linguistics, I believe, which -- well, there’s certainly some _interesting_ ideas they offer, however inefficient…”

Her explanation spirals on, warm, and you tuck your knees in as a pillow for your cheek and just watch her lecture the horizon. You let her voice come in like the tide.

If you could… if you could, you would never let it go out again. Not ever. You want to curl up in the sound of it, you wouldn’t make trouble... just let you be a sliver of driftwood, a scrap of seaweed… oh, if you were only a shell.

 _She doesn’t want to kiss_. So, don’t bite your lip. Don’t press closer. But you do both of these things.

You can’t help it.

At least you wait for to finish her thought before asking, “Do you ever give into feelings?” When she looks at you and blinks, your voice lowers to a simmer. “Like me.”

You mean it as a prod. A flirt. But that nervous little tic in the corner of her mouth gives way.

“I… I’m not good with them.” Her fingers pull away from yours to fidget. “I get lost in those, too.”

Your chest squeezes again, but this time it’s only ache.

* * *

You don’t like making Pearl sad. You _hate_ it, actually. But you don’t know any other way about it -- making advances. Physically, she cheeked your kiss and slowly shrugged off the more involved snuggling. Which is fine, but… and then in talking like that, she… got _that_ look. Like she’s done something wrong. You never want to see it again.

Ugh, and it was so _easy_ with Pink! The littlest nudge of a look, flash of flesh or tilt of your chin. You know you’ll have to be direct with Pearl but so far it seems you’ve only pushed her into gloomy thoughts.

So. You figure: who better to ask than a professional? Bismuth has been partnered with Pearl for… well, a _long_ time, apparently. You haven’t been around her much, really, but when you have she’s always been nice. She gives you a lot of space since seeing the two of you on the couch.

There must not be many classes today, because the trip to the metalworking shop goes easily -- no crowds for you to dodge, no fuss. And you’re just a hair from knocking on the door ajar when you hear Pearl’s windchime laugh float through.

“-- was caught by _surprise,_ sure,” comes another voice, _probably_ Bismuth’s. “But since then I’ve been 100% composed and professional, thank you.”

“Is that what that is?” Pearl sounds amused. Something clatters, like she’s shifting items around. “I suppose it’s easy to have success in that respect when you’ve hardly interacted with her at all.”

You. They’re talking about you.

The door is cracked, so -- you settle in just beside it. Not much is visible through, just some orange-goldy shadows from the fire -- and you miss the next few words in the rush of clangs -- but Pearl’s voice comes through again like a wanted touch in the dark.

“It’s a crush,” she says (your gem tries to flip), a smidge terse. “A giddy crush. She’s suddenly _free_ after so long _\--_ she’s excited, she wants to try things…”

“Yup.” _Clang._ “With a ceeertain someone.”

Pearl scoffs. “I _know_ you’re not jealous.”

“Hey hey, long as she doesn’t try to hedge in as your armorer, we’re good.” Her voice turns warm in her mouth. “You _know_ I like seeing you have your way.”

But Pearl doesn’t take the tease. No smirk. No banter back. Instead, she makes a frustrated _hum --_ you know the sound.

“Seriously. Can’t think of anyone better to help her get the hang of things.”

“... I… hmm.” Pearl sighs into her hand. “I’m not… I’m not sure how to explain it to you.”

“You don’t owe any explanation.”

“I _want_ to.”

“Listen.” Another _clang,_ maybe to set something down, and footsteps. “She’s a sweetheart. And she’s damn _cute._ And she’s into you. You can be upfront.”

“That’s not…” Long, slow exhale. You know that one too. “You don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand?” Bismuth’s grinning, you can hear it, “Only problem I can see is you running out of hands --”

“She’s _vulnerable!”_ (You jump; your hand covers your mouth.) “You don’t spend that long imprinted on someone just to... You can’t just turn it _off._ ” Something yielding slaps down against something firm -- maybe palm against a countertop. “It’s so much more delicate than that. She needs _time_ to sort through what… what she’s thinking and feeling, and what’s simply habit. There’s a transition.” You can see her in your mind’s eye: eyebrows drawn, chin tucked as she stares down at some invisible menace. “She needs transition, and _time_ , and space for herself. To be herself, and _find_ herself. I’m not going to t…” Her voice shakes. “... take advantage.”

Just breathing. For a time. Just Pearl, taking in air, and the fire too. Just Pearl sifting through breath.

You hold yours.

“I’m sorry.” Bismuth. Quietly.

“... it’s alright.” Pearl sounds queasy. “I’m... sorry I raised my voice. I got… I--”

“Nervous?”

“-- nervous, yes.” The sound of her shrinks. You hate it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Thank you.” The fire drones and spits. Weight shifts, somewhere in the dark. “Can I hold you?”

The scrape of a stool pushed out of the way -- Pearl’s breath, trembly but slowing. Calming. She murmurs something, and Bismuth answers. You can hear the rustle of Bismuth’s apron as they embrace, and… oh. The slow heat of a kiss.

The moment turns theirs. All theirs. You’ve been eavesdropping, sure, but this is the first it feels like you’re _invading._ None of this is yours.

Your face burns, and your belly burns. You turn, and you go, carrying a churn in your gem, and your hands and your chest. Maybe if you’re quick enough you can leave it behind.

* * *

For awhile, you… yeah.

You just _are,_ for a few days. Maybe longer. You don’t mill around the beachhouse. You don’t attend meditation. Or classes. You don’t think much about where you’re going. You just sort of… are.

Was the like this? You can’t remember. How it felt. Maybe part of you remembers. If it does it’s keeping quiet.

You watch your feet. Woods. Tidepools. They take you to the boardwalk. It’s a little different, from the last time you’ve been.

You watch your feet and thats the only reason you don’t step in some blue muck. You nearly step in it anyway. It’s sticky, and smells sweet, and chemical. There’s little black pockmarks in it. You look closer. It’s the tiny black bugs you see sometimes. Some kick and struggle in the stickiness but others don’t move.

There’s more bugs a little past it. They don’t seem to notice the muck. You take another step around the line of them (careful, don’t squish) to find where they’re going, and crouch down to watch.

Oh… wow.

 _Squawk_ and rattle: "Pearl?!"

No. Not really. But you look up.

Oh. Amethyst, from the beachhouse.

Her face smooths out. And she just barely stops her beverage from spilling. “I mean… s’up.”

Amethyst has always looked at you not… _suspiciously,_ just a little unsure. Maybe. She’s… well. The one who pointed out the cling. Maybe it's part of what encouraged Pearl to sort of… wean you off of all the cuddling.

There's a squeeze at the back of your neck.

“Hello.” You look down again. Where the bugs are.

“Pearl was looking for you earlier.” Her weight shifts to her other foot. "... been for a minute, actually."

You’re not certain what to say to that.

“All good? Just… chillin'?”

“I’m fine.” You don't say it smiling. But your voice… something about it. You don't like how your voice comes out.

It feels a little like .

So you dig. You find something else, some other tone, right behind your gem, one very near biting. “I’ve been looking around.”

“Yeah, ‘s a good spot to do it.” She almost adds something but hesitates. Instead she takes a long sputtery slurp on the beverage. “Soooo…. what are you checking… _yo.”_

She must angle herself just right to see where you’re watching the bugs work. It’s a bird, you think. At least it used to be.

“Uhhhhhh… okay." Some grit scrapes underfoot when she sidesteps closer. "Sure you're good? Just... scoping out dead seagulls, huh?"

Death isn’t new. You’ve seen gems shattered on three different occasions, until Pink started to refuse attending. But that -- “What are those?” -- whatever was hiding _in_ the seagull, that’s a whole other issue. "The white things."

“Uh… bones?” You can almost hear her blink. “Earth stuff’s got ‘em. Like, mostly. Some stuff doesn’t, like… grass, and ice cream, and trees, and jellyfish and uhhhh… those ants.”

“Oh... wow.” They're like shells on the inside.

“You’re not really like Pearl at all, huh?” She almost sounds relieved. It’s what finally brings you to look up at her again.

“I thought you got along with Pearl,” you say.

“Sure. I love that dork. But I only got room for one.” Amethyst straightens up with a grunt. She tosses her beverage behind her back and pumps her fist (“ _Yessss”_ ) when it lands in the bin. "C'mon. It's getting dark."

She flops onto the floor next to you, right in front of the television. “You ever play video games?”

You don’t want to be in the beachhouse. You don’t, and _didn’t,_ even as Amethyst led you from the boardwalk to the beach and up the stairs, grit scraping every step. But your feet moved, they took you up, even though it made you feel all the grit on the inside, up up up, thank the stars Pearl’s not around.

It’s the question that snaps you out of... it. _Video games?_ “... are you seriously asking me that?”

She sucks her teeth, _tchk._

The glass screen flickers -- _bang! Bang!_ And gooey red drips down from the top while some… truly distressing chords scrape out of the sound system.

**_Molten Eye, 007_ **

“Here.” Amethyst wiggles a lump of plastic in front of you. “This controls your guy.”

Okay?

You take it… your hands do, anyway. It’s lighter than it looks. The buttons are cool and smooth beneath your thumbs. You can see the wear on the plastic from hours and hours, held in other hands. Did Pearl ever play with this one?

 _Stop that._ Just stop it.

The screen changes: boxes that Amethyst seems to flip through too quickly for you to see… you feel yourself frowning as Amethyst reaches over and pushes a button on your controller (“ _C’mon, c’mon --_ ”), and the screen splits horizontally down the middle: both frames show the drab insides of… something -- some building. You squint. The graphics are _terrible_.

“How do...?” You watch Amethyst’s thumbs as she toggles a lever on the controller. “What exactly…”

“It’s… y’know! Your guy.” She huffs and looks at you sideways. But it’s... apologetic. “It’s easier if you just mess around with it than me trying to explain.”

 _Just mess around._ See how it works. Okay. On Amethyst’s half of the screen screen, her “guy” is already flitting around, picking up boxes of… stuff. Weapons, you realize, when she blasts away at a barrel and chortles.

You copy her. With the thumbs. Wrong button, first (“Hey, c’mon, that pauses the whole thing --”), but then you use your thumb to toggle the lever and you _yelp,_ because your guy _moves,_ and the controller falls with a clatter.

“Yo! C’mon, man, these are expensive!” Amethyst sucks her teeth again (and has to puff a _phfftt_ to blow a chunk of hair out of her mouth) as she reaches to pick it up. “... hey… you okay?”

You turn. Sort of. Just your neck. Are you dizzy? A little dizzy. She’s holding the controller out, watching you.

“It’s not real, dude.” The same look. The one from the boardwalk. Wary. “You good?”

You giggle. It’s all nerves, rattling in you. “I’m… I’m good.”

She’s still watching you closely as you take the controller back. A nest of nausea is building near your gem but there’s also -- also _giddiness --_ it’s kind of fun. You’re definitely a little dizzy. You press and the person moves. You press, and the person moves. You spin them in a circle and --

“Okay, but for the _actual_ game -- you gotta pull out your guns --”

Halfway through, you shift from kneeling to sitting with your legs crossed. Easier that way.

With Amethyst you discover some things. Most food is _meh,_ with a hand wiggle, but you do like ice cream (always ask for extra napkins.) Standing with your arms crossed can keep you warm, or show you’re bored, or tell someone to buzz off. Human customs, anatomy, phew. Organics don’t go away all at once, and that’s interesting, but it’s kinda creepy to talk about. There's lots of ways to turn a phrase.

Sometimes at the beachhouse, sometimes not. You only take the steps to the top when you’re positive Pearl has a class, or a date.

Maybe Amethyst notices. Maybe not.

... but probably, yeah.

Animals are especially easy to learn about. They talk about them on the television and books and _all over_ the internet, and also they just sort of… show up. You’re playing with one of them on the kitchen floor when the screen door whines open, and Steven _yelps._

“Volley!” His bag drops to the floor and he spreads his arms, umpire-style. “Stay calm!”

Uh. You blink, still splayed on your side. “Sure?”

“I’ll be _right….”_ He begins to creep from the door towards you, like the floor’s turned to a game of _Minemopper._ “... there…”

“Steven, are you… good?”

“That’s a brown recluse!” he hisses, gone pale.

“Oh, yeah,” Amethyst doesn’t twitch to get up from the video game. She just got to level 23 yesterday got ‘too much momentum to stop, man!’ ”Probs from my room, my bad Stee-maaaan.”

He rolls his eyes.

You shake your head. “No… it crawled out of the sink.” Probably from the drain? You watched it sit frozen for an hour, but didn’t see how it got there. Steven doesn’t answer. You frown, watching him scrabble up some scrap of paper and an empty drinking glass from the table. “Is it bad?”

“Not _bad…_ None of them are _bad…_ ” Steven’s face is twisted up as he eases closer. “But they can hurt us if we’re not careful.”

He gently -- _geeeently_ \-- tilts the sheet of paper to brush the bug from the back of your hand. It lands, and Steven yelps again, and rushes to cover it with the drinking glass.

“Phew.” The floor _thunks_ as he plops onto his backside, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re okay, right? Did it bite you?”

Bite? “I don’t think?” _Bite?_ The poor thing’s entire body is smaller than most teeth you’ve seen.

“Did it hurt?”

“No…” You lean closer, and smile in mischief. “It _tickled.”_

Steven smiles back, but it’s… patient. “Brown recluses… everyone freaks about black widows, but brown recluses can actually be way worse if you’re allergic. Though I guess gems don’t have to worry about that...?”

He puts a hand to his chin as you nod along, pretending to understand.

“What’s a widow?”

It interrupts his next move. He hesitates. “A woman whose… um… partner passed away.”

“Oh.” You smile but it’s the permanent kind. “You mean died.”

“... yeah… but, I mean. Those are just their special names… _species_ names... they're all just spiders, I guess."

“Then what’s a recluse?”

“Let me Boogle that for you,” Amethyst honks from the TV.

“A recluse, like… doesn’t like to be around other people?” Steven cups his two hands together, and pushes them away in a pantomime. “They like to keep to themself.”

His smile’s been uneasy for awhile, but it drops altogether as he makes the gesture. It’s like watching a page turn. You wonder who he thought about.

But already, Steven’s back on the move: he slides the sheet of paper from the counter underneath the glass. Ah, gotcha -- the two things combined make a little container for the brown recluse. And it makes things easier for Steven as he carefully, _caaarefully_ lifts the recluse-paper-glass-container to eye level.

“You just scoop ‘em, sweep ‘em, and…” -- awkward shuffling -- “... get to the door, aaand….” He’s too fast to help, wiggle-nudging the door open with his hip before hurrying to the rail and flinging his arms wide. “Hup!”

“ _Yeet!_ ”

“And there you have it.” His hands are still full with the paper and glass, but that doesn’t stop him from pretending to dust them off. He even puffs out his chest. “Friendly spider relocation complete! If you find another one in here, that’s allll you gotta do.”

You couldn’t see the brown recluse as it fell. The sink isn’t the best place for it, probably, but you wonder if it’s better off on the beach.

You just nod, and Steven beams.

“Welp! Back to it.” The fridge door rattles as he opens it, and digs around for some bottled drinks. “I gotta help the community center set up for Capture the Flag. You should come by later!”

Mm. “Sure,” comes from your mouth. Your hands curl where the controller would be.

“Good seeing you Volley. Later Amethyst!” And then he’s out the door, humming to himself. The metal screening wobbles a second after the door slams, and he skips a few steps thumping down the stairs. A minute later the Dondai grumbles to life.

You’re staring. You know. Amethyst pointed it out. _It’s not a big deal, just try not to, like... do it at people._ For the most part, the week with her has been good. She doesn’t dig around for much in the way of explanations, and she answers questions easily enough. As long as they’re direct.

You cross to the staircase. You follow the sounds leading up to the television, and settle at the topmost step. “Do you put them outside, too?”

“Don’t tell Steven,” she says, still watching the screen, “but most people just flush ‘em down the drain.”

* * *

“Hello Volley.” Garnet’s legs are still crossed on the mat. “You just missed class.”

There’s a whiff of a chide in the tone. Because you’ve missed this class, and the last class, and the one before, and...

“Sorry.” You half shrug. _That’s_ a first. Where did that come from? “Uh… can I just,” you swipe a hand, a little too sharp, “use the space?”

“Of course.” Garnet’s famously hard to read. As ever. But there might be a split second delay before she adds “I was going to stay as well.”

That feels like a lie. But it’s fine. Whatever. A _white lie,_ apparently. Blegh. You just dust a smile over your shoulder and tug a mat from the bin.

“I could guide you, if you like,” she says.

You feel prickly. You want the release and relaxation of meditation, however tricky it might be, and Garnet is a part of that. By habit. Her voice is like curling up somewhere warm. But scattered all over the usual comforting feeling of meditation is something bitey and irritating -- digging underneath, and all over you, like the sandspurs on the beach.

“No, I’m…” The corner of your lip tugs. If you try to settle in on your own, feeling like _this_ , the awkwardness and the irritation will make it a waste of time. You’ll just sit here and stew. “Yes. Actually.” You wrinkle your lips and smooth them again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” If Garnet notices anything, she doesn’t say. Of course she doesn’t. “Sit comfortably. And pay attention to your breathing…”

Normally you don’t think of anything during meditation. You just... it's like a version of . But, like, nice. Soothing. That’s the _appeal._ But as Garnet guides you through breathing, pulling breath down past “where lungs should be” to your center... all you can think of is the seagull. On the boardwalk. The carpenter ants had stripped it down so severely that most of the feathers had blown loose. The image of a seagull skeleton on the internet you found later that week stunned you, because even though it looked so _different_ it was so easy to see what it had once been. Exactly the right shape, with none of the softness.

And somewhere between these thoughts you calm, you cool, and find that quiet space within yourself.

When Garnet slowly brings you back, you feel better than you have in ages. Kind of… dreamy, floaty. Just _good._ You didn’t realize you were getting so bad.

You give Garnet a smile, a real one this time, as you pack your mat away.

“Volley.”

You turn to look. Garnet’s quietly gotten to her feet.

“There’s nothing wrong with your feelings.”

Oh boy. You don’t let your eyes narrow. “I… I know that.”

“It’s fine to quiet them if you need.” She watches you, steady, impassive. “But make sure to feel them. There’s nothing wrong with them.”

 _What do you know?_ you want to spit. So, so much easier said. There’s too many in you. They’re too strong, and you have nowhere to _put_ them.

Pearl said the same thing -- feelings are good! -- great! Sure! La-dee-da, that’s not the problem. You glare down at where Garnet’s gems are, hidden in her palms. Action. Directness. Endlessly capable. Must make everything much more straightforward. Things don’t sit and slog and slunk around like a damn washing machine. And then Pearl… feelings can get to be too much for her, but not in the way they are for you. She intellectualizes everything…

 _Ugh._ All the calm and cool and dreamy-floaty-good, all sucked right out to sea.

You give a “Thanks” tight enough to snap and you go. She doesn’t answer. You need to get better at hiding this sort of thing.

* * *

“I want different clothes,” you say.

“Aight.” Shruggy shrug-shrug. Amethyst wets her thumb with her tongue, and flips to the next page of her roster. “Change ‘em.”

“Ones that last.”

A throng of topazes and a few nephrites cross the courtyard as you watch. No one you know. You could maybe nix the flouncy tutu for good. If you focused. But changing everything, wholesale, tip-to-toe would take too long... and too much energy to keep up for very long.

“What -- like you wanna poof?”

Urgh. “ _Hopefully_ not.”

“Hmmm.” She looks up from her roster, down at you. Amethyst likes to perch on the chess table after her hodgepodge of classes, and meanwhile you’ve gotten accustomed to hanging around in one of the chairs. You aren’t quite eye level with her. Part of it bothers you, maybe. Maybe. But if there’s anyone who gives less of a flip about the old stuff than Amethyst, you haven’t met her yet.

She makes a picture frame with her stubby fingers and squints through it at you. It’s for show, you know. Whatever she’s thinking, it’s decided before she swings to her feet. “C’mon, we gotta move fast on this.”

“Why?”

“Cause something else might come up and distract us.”

“You left your roster.” It’s still sitting on the chess table.

“Let’s _goooo_ \--”

That’s how you end up in the thrift shop. Big yawny windows, good lighting, terrible upkeep. Old habits nibble at your fingertips at the layer of dust you see on the cash register.

“It’s like, a reuse store, too? For junk people don’t want,” Amethyst says with a lofty hand. She leads you through racks of notebooks, cookbooks, postcards and calendars, crayons and paintboxes, hats matted like dead things. There’s bins the size of refrigerators that contain what appears to be egg and milk cartons. Buttons. Pencils… those little orange tubes, the things medicine come in.

You stop at one of the boxes as Amethyst winds on, “Lots of artsy fartsy kids come by to buy weird stuff for projects. But _mostly…_ ”

Her voice fades behind a swaybacked bookshelf as you look closer. They’re pictures. Like, photographs. They’re tacky. Not, like, _tacky_ \-- they feel almost sticky on the front. You pick up the topmost on the pile. You can barely tell what it is, at first look… washed-out greys, chewed-up browns and rough lines. After a second the picture clicks: someone’s old fireplace, all gutted of heat. Dusty, dusty. You don’t have a handle on Earth time yet, but it certainly hadn’t been used in a… in five years, probably.

You drop it back in the box, and it makes a slicing sound against the rest. Then you pick up another.

This one: salty black-and-white, hard-toothed buildings, a worn-out woman hugging a baby to her hip. Or a kid. _Her_ kid. They both have glasses and serious looks on their faces and dark, somber eyes. Looks like they just got some bad news. It’s a photo at night, so you can’t imagine what they’re doing. Their hair sticks to their cheeks… it must have been hot out.

You drop it back in the box and pick up another.

A grinning boy, bony as a horse, draped in dark blue robes with a funny square hat. He looks exhausted. On the back of the photo, someone with punchdrunk penmanship used a purple pen to write _Congratulations Mahmoud!!! (‘98)_

You squint: there’s other people in the photo, but --

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re one of _those_ weirdos.”

Amethyst has wandered back. She watches you dig through the box with _that_ look, but you don’t let it stop you. She’s the one who brought you here, anyway.

You pick up another. “Whose are they?”

“The store’s, now. People just come by and drop ‘em off.”

“Why wouldn’t they want them?”

“Eh... People gotta dump stuff all the time.” She sucks her teeth, _tchk._ “Bet you half of them are beach pictures.”

Huh. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Beaches brings out everyone’s inner cornball. Cameras just catch them in the act.”

… huh.

“Did you wanna look at clothes or nah?”

“Yeah.” You turn back to the box. “Just give me a minute.”

It says CASCADE SALMON HATCHERY -- EST. 1878 -- and it’s a deep, chemical blue, almost purple. The lining… it’s soft, so probably not wool. Not silk. You can’t remember the others.

“Not bad. The leggings actually kinda work with it.” Amethyst squints over the hand on her chin. She’s not all the way onboard with it. “Hmhmhm. What do _you_ think?”

You do like it. It’s just… “Too long.” A little itchy on the gem. You tug at the front. “Can I make it shorter?”

“Oh, chyeah. I get the same. Here, let’s try a liiittle adjustment --”

The bottom part of the garment shreds easy enough, but not _neatly_. You’ll need to touch it up later… but when you turn back to the corner mirror, Amethyst _squeals_. “Hey, _yeah!_ Yeah yeah yeah -- that’s the look, V!”

You… yeah.

You like it.

“We wanna smooth up the loose bits with like, I dunno… maybe a lighter or something…”

A lighter? That doesn’t sound right.

“Stay _right_ there -- don’t move!”

She scurries off, back to the racks of clothes. You turn back to the mirror.

You _do_ like it. Especially the color. But your gem… you pick at one of the loose threads as it brushes. How would it look if your gem was… somewhere else?

There’s no point thinking like that. But at they very least, you wouldn’t need a lighter.

“Try these! C’mon, c’mon!” Amethyst can barely keep herself from throwing it in your face.

“What…” The material is thick, kind of like… “Were these... jeans?”

“They’re cutoffs. Nix the tutu and try ‘em!”

You do: it works. You actually really like it. Blue might be your favorite, maybe, and it changes your shape. You look less delicate.

For her part, Amethyst seems way more excited than you. “ _Hey!_ What about your hair? You wanna keep the whole _Star Scrimmages_ vibe?”

She seems keen to reach for your hair until someone sighs behind you. “Amethyst…”

You both turn. One of the workers? You guess. She’s squeezing the bridge of her nose like she’s the only thing keeping it on. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Pssst get goin’, let me handle this.” Amethyst hip-bumps you out of the mirror corner, behind a shelf that extremely does not conceal you from view. “Heeey, Carla -- that a new nosering?”

Well. It _works_. You manage to slink past another gaggle of customers, the empty bottles, the hand-me-down plushies, the atlases, the photographs, and out the front door and back onto the street.

The sun is gone, again. And the wind’s picked up.

You stop next to a letterbox and just stand, a moment. The idea of going back to the beachhouse isn’t appealing. Certainly not to classes.

Where to?

A scraping sound startles you and you turn, crouched, pressing out of the way -- and some kid skitters by on a skateboard, you didn’t know they were so _loud_ \-- they lean and shimmy, making the board ziggle and zag before they turn at the corner, out of sight. They don’t come back.

It takes a minute to catch your breath. That was actually kind of scary, huh?

_Where to?_

Not here, at least. You follow your feet. Towards the beach. Yeah, alright. “Cornball.”

It feels good: since it’s not part of you, the hoodie moves in unexpected ways you can’t control at all. The fabric skims against your midback and waist when the breeze shifts by, and it’s soft against your arms when you cross them. That’s good. It’s getting colder.

You still can’t get the hang of telling if it’s about to rain. At first you thought it was just when the clouds change shape, but that isn’t always the case. Apparently some people say they “can smell rain coming,” _that’s_ a load. Otherwise they would explain how to do it.

The pullover tugs as you squat down, arms crossed, just in front of the waterline. You should probably figure out what to do if it gets rained on. Or you guess you can just get another one.

(Your arms squeeze together, over your gem.)

You look back the way you came. The little pockets in the sand from your footsteps are already getting shaved down by the wind, bit by bit. Few more minutes and they’ll probably be gone.

_I suspect all pearls can._

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. And you bury your hand, next to you, and you… you picture it: picture shaping them again. The dips where your steps had been. It’s not even trying to make the grains do anything different, is it? Nothing they weren’t doing already. You’re just putting them back where they wanted to go, before the wind distracted.

You picture it. Your eye closes. You watch them move, in the dark, and you wait. _I suspect all pearls can._ You picture the little spider-tickle of the grains against themselves as they shift back, clamber over and around, peel upwards to make the little divots.

_All pearls can._

Your eye opens. Your footsteps are entirely gone. The sand only shows the wrinkles from the wind.

You feel water. You feel blank. You look down. The shoreline’s caught up to you. It’s soaking your toes.

The many many many many many times you watched Pink lose her temper, there was always a lead-up: her hands would start to shake, her voice snagged at the edges, and then the scream would come and the walls and floor and would shatter, and you would hide as best you could until the room stopped falling apart.

There is no lead-up. You’re simply watching yourself scramble to kick great sweeping furrows in the sand, making _noises_ \-- you’ve never made these noises -- sand scatters and catches on the wind to blow back on you and you swipe at it, still thrashing, and your last kick _OW_ has a rivet of pain scalding up your leg, something sharp, you stumble over it.

And you stop. Your breath heaves, and you crouch down again to hug your knees. Specks of grit from the wind trickles off of you, spills down your neck.

 _Don’t cry._ You’re sick of crying. Crying hasn’t helped anything at all, has it? But you can feel it welling up anyway ( _Don’t cry!_ ). How much from the sand, and how much from the shell, you don’t even care, you just _don’t._

_The shell._

You can throw it. Yes.

You’re going to throw it. You crouch and shuffle to the last sweeping gouge you left in the sand, and grab for it, and...

There’s no shell at all. It’s a bone. You pick it up… yes, it’s a bone. Yes: cool, and smooth, mostly flat, long dried out. It’s not white. Not anymore. You bring it closer to inspect and see it’s been snapped at one end… and it has holes in it.

 _For teeth,_ you think. _For a jaw._

Something used this as its jaw -- half a jaw, anyway. You look back at the scattered spot, and scoop awkward, one-handed palmfuls of sand to the side, looking for the rest. But it’s just sand and seaweed. A few pebbles. The rest of it must be buried deeper, or somewhere else altogether.

The size… it might be a small dog. _Definitely_ not human. Too big for a cat, you think. Or maybe Cat Steven is just small for a cat? What else could it fit? You hold the bone up, closer. A fish would make sense, too... being by the sea... you don’t know very many animals at all.

You try to picture it: the rest of the thing that used this. Whatever it was.

Cold water dots your nose, and you blink. Then more of them -- the rain’s started. And the clouds _still_ don’t look any different.

Your gem glows, and takes it in, for safekeeping. You’ll find out what it belonged to.

* * *

* * *

* * *

You feel eyes on you and cast around without moving. Pearls always had to be good at that, you’ve realized: being seen and unseen. Both of them. It’s harder nowadays but the nephrite staring is on your good side. She’s working up the nerve to approach.

You kick your feet over the water, and you wait.

The nephrite steps gingerly, first. Then she reconsiders and walks normally. The boards click underfoot. Doesn’t want to startle you.

“Hello there!” She waves. “Are you alone?”

You pause. Then you lick some ice cream that’s dripped over your thumb. You don’t look at her. “Hello.”

Chilly. You can’t decide if you want to talk or not.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Can I join you?”

You like this dock _precisely_ because it’s out of the way, and no one bothers with it much. But your mouth says, “Of course you can,” and you don’t even care enough to feel annoyed.

 _That_ annoys you. That you don’t care. It feels like it should annoy you.

The nephrite dithers on how close to sit. She settles in not quite arm’s reach away. But then she chickens out and scoots a bit farther.

“I’ve seen you in a few classes,” she says. “I really like the watercolor you’ve been doing? With the, er…”

She cups her hands and lines them up together, fingertips-to-wrist. She wiggles two fingers on the far end. Her expression is so _serious_ doing such a goofy-looking thing that it surprises a laugh from you, and it’s only once she’s flushed dark green you realize what she was charading.

“Beetles,” you help. Why not? “They’re called hide beetles.”

“Yes!” Her eye is wide and she’s clamped her hands to the dock, like the shock of getting you to laugh is enough to knock her into the water. “Yes, you made them very _detailed_ and realistic! As well as the… um… what is it they’re all climbing on?”

It’s the deer skull. From the picture, the one you found on the internet. A video mentioned them by name. “ _Nature’s archaeologists.”_

But you don’t tell her that. “It’s an abstract.” You shrug, easy. Ice cream drips. “I just think beetles are pretty.”

“They’re very pretty. I can’t wait to see the whole thing finished.”

You nod slowly. You don’t really want the ice cream anymore, but you take another lick to avoid having to answer. You’re ready for her to leave.

On one of the far docks, farther north on the shore, someone shouts. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying. Someone shouts back, softer. The both of you fall quiet and watch.

It’s a few minutes before she tries again. You hear her lips part. "Art’s challenging with… the one eye." She’s watching you for the slightest sign. You feel her. "Right?"

It’s a little incredible. You don’t move a tic, but every inch of you feels like a door slammed shut.

The nephrite fidgets. She’s staring hard.

You don’t move. (Ice cream’s dripping.) You wish she’d leave.

“Is there a dorm for pearls?” She sounds more nervous but bolder, too. Like there’s less to lose. “I don’t think I’ve seen one…”

You shake your head. Once. There aren’t enough of you to build one.

“Then… where do you stay?”

The nephrite hasn’t moved but you feel crowded, somehow. You turn to face her completely for the first time, and she jumps, but not as much as you’d like.

“Uh, not to ask too many questions.” Her hands come up in a shield. She’s still dark green. Kind of pretty. “I’m not trying to follow you around, or anything! Er, I mean -- just, if you had nowhere to stay, we have room -- “

You watch her wilt and backtrack. You’re tired. Not _many_ gems have tried to talk to you, but you always get extended scrutiny. Lot of stares and whispers when you pass the queues in Little Homeworld. Sometimes because of the eye but mostly because you’re… _you._ They look at you, and see nothing but some juicy possibility.

And what can you say back? “Stop staring at me”? “I’m not interested”? “I only like other pearls”? That might just encourage some of them.

She babbles about how _neat_ nephrites are, so very tidy, and your fist clenches and crunches the the ice cream cone and it startles you into dropping the whole mess into the water with a _plop_.

The two of you stare at the ripples where it vanishes into the sea.

“Oh…” She sounds a little faint. “You dropped it.”

You brace your hands to the dock. One clean and one sticky.

And you edge closer to her. Her jaw drops.

Part of you wants to pull back ( _What are you doing!_ ) but you don’t stop. You get close enough to brush her pinky with yours, just a little kiss of contact.

Some kind of click in her throat. She’s staring.

You tip your chin, and warm your gaze buttery soft. And you simper, “Could you get me another?”

“Y… yes!” She nearly falls into the sea getting to her feet. “Of course, yes, just stay -- stay right there --”

The dock underfoot _clunk clunk clunks_ until she gets to the sand. She didn’t check what flavor. You wonder if she even knows where to _go_ for one.

The water’s too restless to reflect your legs as you kick them again, slow. Let your heels weave, figure-eight. You wonder if the ice cream has been eaten up yet. All melted, but with the cone still there, you guess. Sea slugs. Minnows. Urchins. Starfish, mud snails, lopsided fiddler crabs, knobbed whelks and opercula. Even if it sinks to the bottom, something will find it to chew on.

You take a look down the dock, to the shore. The nephrite is gone. Out of sight. But you can’t risk bumping into her again. Guess you won't be finishing that watercolor anytime soon.

You point your toes and slip off the dock, into the sea.

* * *

You sign up for Pearl’s classes and never show, and leave little clues of yourself where you know she will see.

When you switch out CASCADE SALMON HATCHERY for a new hoodie, you leave the old one on the couch for her to find. And when you come back days later, it’s laundered fresh and folded on the armrest with an envelope labelled in aeriform cursive: “Volley”

You brush the envelope into the squeeze between the cushions. Oops. (But you take the hoodie.)

There’s another brown recluse. There, on the kitchen floor, just as you’re about to leave. It holds you frozen.

You listen: after a long minute, you hear no one else in the beachhouse. No Amethyst or Steven upstairs.

You pull a glass off the counter.

They’re called the violin spider, too, because of how they’re shaped. Their legs are very long, proportionally, even for _Araneae,_ and unlike most of their relatives they only come with six eyes.

“Little short-sighted,” you murmur. “You aren’t alone.”

It’s a terrible name. Recluses come in batches, really. If you’ve got one in your home, you probably have more.

You tent the glass over the recluse. No paper. No removal. You just watch it, awhile. It doesn’t move for a long time. When it does, you listen to it tap against the glass.

_Why is she worried **now?**_

* * *

A group of quartzes have lit a bonfire on the beach. You recognize one or two. The rest must be new. They’re fumbling with a few bags of marshmallows and butchering clotheshangers in their shovel hands.

That’s the problem with quartzes: there’s never just _one_ of them.

Your feet stutter under you. It’s just rained, and your head is muzzy, and you don’t want to deal with _anyone_ right now. Much less a pack of wild quartzes.

Should you go around?

… no. Too much time, doubling back. Going around. Cutting a wide circuit. You’re _sick_ of it, actually.

You bite down: you tighten the mandible you don’t have but can imagine using, and your chin cuts high, _high,_ and you walk on, without a second look at the rowdy crowd. You don’t afford them the slightest glance.

And it pays off. You, a pearl, tall and proud, all your own on the beach. Not _caring._

Until they go quiet. Until they go still.

Only the fire crackles. Only your steps in the sand.

Their focus is oppressive like the gravity’s tripled.

You look without looking. In the corner of your eye: they’re all watching you. Intent. One is frozen with her wrist in the marshmallow bag. One’s mouth hangs open.

But all of them, like the documentary you watched last week. A pack of wild dogs over a springbok carcass, staring into the camera. Silent and red-mouthed.

You swallow. You keep your legs moving.

“Hey!”

_Oh._

Oh, no.

“Hey -- stop!"

Freeze or run.

Pick.

Pick _now!_

The thud of the quartz’s steps buzz through the sand like a whole series of dropships from even _so_ far away, and the thud thunders up through your feet to your gem your legs gum up and they root you there. You want very much to hide. You want to curl your arms, your body, curl up around your gem to protect it but you don’t move no you don’t move a fraction.

She slows as she gets closer. And takes a moment to whip hair out of her way. Broad. Brutal-looking. She’s mostly cigarette reds and yellows. Little fringes of horns, hematoma-blue.

You find it within yourself to look her in the eye. You don’t look away.

“Hey.” The quartz stops not far. She looks a little wary herself. Maybe she couldn’t see your eye from down the beach. Her mouth scrunches, and her feet shift, and even _that_ you can feel through the sand. “You all by yourself?”

A couple others have been emboldened. They follow, more slowly. One has her chest puffed out. Another flexes by pretending to stretch.

“I didn’t know there was another pearl here.” The quartz takes a step forward. “... to be honest, I’ve never seen one this close.”

She leans, reaching for your arm. You take a step back.

Her eyebrows drag in. Like she’s puzzled. But she rallies. “Well… I mean. Is your eye okay?”

You turn your face away, back towards Little Homeworld. Just… stars, let you _leave._

“Huh.” One monster hand goes up to scratch around her neck. “You ever roasted marshmallows?”

“You should come try,” cuts in another one. Lower voice. “We got plenty.”

Two more trot up, watching hungrily. You can feel their eyes all over you.

“Hi. You’re not all alone out here, are you?”

“Not anymore.” Another one grins at you. She grabs at you, too, “Don’t you wanna --” and you back away from _her,_ too, but there’s more of them “-- whoa, where’re you going?”

Does she think that’s friendly? Do they realize they’re surrounding you? Are they playing dumb?

One flexes, showing a bulge of muscle right where she’s sure you can see. “You should come hang out with us.”

“What happened to your eye?”

“ _Hey, c’mon!_ ”

“That’s rude as hell.” A big onyx punches her arm, and the offender flinches away, growling. “Just ignore her. You’re pretty.”

“ _Super_ pretty. Are all pearls pretty as you?”

_Don’t run. Don’t run._

“Hey! Where you going?”

_Don’t chase me. Don’t chase me._

“What’d you say to her?”

“ _Idiots._ ”

“Hey!” one of them barks, sharp, and cold fear pinches down your back but you just keep your legs moving. Just keep going.

They don’t chase and you’re grateful enough to bruise.

The beachhouse is too far. Too far. You almost want to stop and rest but your legs might not let you up again. So you make a shaky path to the metalworking room.

Pearl was there last time. Pearl’s there often. Just get to the metalworking.

The door is closed this time. All the way. You knock, too softly, but you hear Bismuth even through the slab of metal. She hoots, “One second!” as a few things clang, bang. Her steps come heavy on the other side just before the door swings open.

“Evening, how can I help yyy…” Her face goes through a split second of surprise before it darkens.

“Is Pearl here?” Your throat feels odd.

Maybe it comes out too quavery. Maybe you’re wearing your nerves too clear on your face. Because Bismuth reaches (and you _flinch,_ you can’t help it) but carefully ushers you inside with a huge hand to your back. She scans left and right along the road before she yanks the door shut. Locks it, too.

She kind-of-leads, kind-of-pushes you to a stool by the counter. You might lean more than you want to. “Here -- sit.” Firm but gentle.

You sit. On the stool. You’re shivering. You hadn’t realized. No Pearl. Not that you can see, at least. Bismuth sweeps away to the backroom.

 _She’s off to fetch her_ , a little spark of hope says. _She’s going to bring Pearl and leave you both alone, And you can tell her what happened and maybe cry, and Pearl will cradle you and say how sorry she is she wasn’t there_ \--

… oh, no. But that would also mean… she’s off to fetch her. Off to get _Pearl,_ and after all this time that you’ve…

You feel nauseous. You might sink, a little.

But Bismuth comes back alone -- mostly. She’s carrying a huge, well-loved quilt, and before you can ask anything she carefully buries you in its fluffy expanse.

(You kind of want to giggle. From the goofiness, and the relief. It just feels _silly._ )

But Bismuth takes a knee and hunches right in front of you. She levels her eye with yours in all sobriety. “What happened?”

… well...

“... nothing happened.”

“‘Nothing happened’? C’mon... you’re shaking like goldleaf.” Her voice goes softer. “Let me help.”

 _Help._ Of course she wants to help.

You know Bismuth is good. Good enough, at least -- Pearl wouldn’t waste her time otherwise. But you’re not sure how much Bismuth _can_ help. Not with this, after the fact. You’re not sure anyone could ‘get it’ except another pearl.

But if Pearl _isn’t_ around… well. Her partner certainly must have experience with hearing this kind of thing.

Your fingers squeeze, pinching the edges of the quilt together.

“... some...” Dry lips. You wet them. The quilt is heavy. What little warmth your body generates stays trapped underneath it, warming you more than the hoodie. And when you bury your chin deeper, you can focus on the springy, smoky smell. It helps, really. But it does make you a little muffled too. “Um… some quartzes --”

“Did they hurt you? Oh, I _swear_ , we’re gonna have a little _conversation_ about how Earth decency works --”

“No, they didn’t... didn’t do anything. They just talked to me.” You lips feel strange. Raw. Oh. You didn’t notice you were biting them. You burrow a little deeper into the blanket. It’s… very much a burrowing kind of moment. “Quartzes make me... nervous.”

The fact is you don’t _like_ quartzes. You’d do just fine if you never saw another one again. But it feels a little rude to say.

“Did they threaten you?”

You shake your head.

“Harass you?”

… you think. Maybe? You just frown. Ugh.

“What did they say?”

Your shoulder does not want to shrug. You make it. “... they… called me pretty. And wanted me to hang out with them…”

Ridiculous. You sound ridiculous.

Bismuth snorts. But not because she agrees. Her eyes roll, and she slumps an elbow on the low counter next to her. “Yeah, only a half dozen of them, all asking at once, sticking their arms in your face. Bet they didn’t give you a word in edgewise, did they? Bunch of lunks…”

… you… feel a _little_ less ridiculous.

“Listen.” The counter _thumps_ as Bismuth bops a fist to it. “It’s _not_ okay for a bunch of gems _you don’t know_ to give you a scare like that. And it won’t happen again if I got anything to say about it.”

She gets an odd look on her face as she finishes, like she’s said too much.. or the wrong thing, altogether. The glance she cuts you goes uneasy before she clears her throat and rises to both feet.

“Anyway…” Her smock’s taken on some dust from the kneeling. A few bats knock it out in tidy little plumes. “Sorry, not sure where Pearl is right this second. But you’re more than welcome to camp out here as long as you want.”

She mutters something about ‘a mandatory seminar’ -- it’s hard to make out with the hasty U-turn she makes to the other side of the counter. She’s clanging and banging for half a minute before you realize it’s a retreat.

 _Right._ She’s here, at night, alone with her partner’s not-so-secret admirer. The “giddy crush” who’s gone missing in action… who Pearl’s probably worried about _to_ Bismuth, maybe even in this very seat…

Ugh. Maybe you _are_ ridiculous. Maybe even a jerk.

You hitch the heavy cloth higher on your shoulders.

“It’s a nice blanket,” you say.

“Thanks. Yeah.” Bismuth smiles over some half-finished project she’s picked up again. “It’s the emergency blanket.”

“‘Emergency blanket’?”

“You got it!” An outright grin, now. “For emergencies.”

You wait for a more thorough explanation. Bismuth fails to give you one.

She gets back to work in earnest when it seems it won’t offend you. It’s soothing, really. The clicks and clangs. The low light, the comfy drone of the fire. And it’s warm in here. You don’t make a regular habit of sleeping, but you see an impeccable case for curling up in the corner to nap.

Instead, you say “Pearl’s over here a lot,” to the floor.

The hammer rhythm pauses. Then picks up again. “Yeah.”

Obviously. It’s why you came here to find her. It’s why you’ve avoided the shop for weeks.

You turn, just enough. Enough to see her. Bismuth looks anxious. It’s hard work, and hot work, but you imagine one or two of those sweatdrops have more to do with the awkward atmosphere.

You ease off the stool (still clutching the emergency blanket) -- and step around to find another perch in Bismuth’s eyeline. “Is this weird for you?”

Maybe she’ll play dumb.

Bismuth smiles, though. If you’re not totally fried from the scare, she looks a little grateful. “... figured it must feel weirder for you. Been bracing for it.”

You giggle. “What, you’re... pre-weirding?”

She laughs, too. It’s a good laugh. “Suppose I’m a pro by now.” The hammer comes back down. “Nothing seems to slow down, here…”

You know the basics. You suppose Bismuth understands better than most about the . Comparatively. Rather than tough-luck collateral from friendly fire corruption, both of your _blooped_ out millenia were very, _very_ intentional on the part of a diamond. It was… you know? It was _personal._

You squeeze the thick blanket between your fingertips. (It really does help.)

Another few minutes pass like that. The silence isn’t even awkward... jeez, it’s almost easy. Bismuth taps away at whatever metal she’s working and you watch.

How much time does Pearl spend here? How much exactly? To come away with the smells. You catch hints of smoke and leather and steel from her far more often than perfume.

You sigh, “She’s wonderful.”

The hammer pauses again. But it’s to give you another smile. “You’re tellin’ me.”

You give her another minute of peace to work.

“I’ve been meaning to ask.” You can’t help but wonder. Pearl doesn’t talk much about the early days. But it seems rude, so you add a little “um” for effect. A little hesitation. “... who made the first move?”

“... hm.” Bismuth’s enormous hand goes to her chin. “Like, the first one that counted?”

“... sure?”

She scratches a few times, frowning at the ceiling. “Huh… I’m not sure on that one, actually.”

“Laaame,” you cheek. Maybe you have to prod more. “Cop out answer.”

“I’m serious!” Her brow tilts but she’s smiling. It’s almost a bashful look. “It’s a tough call… kinda… back-and-forth. Confusing, even.”

Hm. You fight off a frown. “What do you mean?”

“It was a strange time.” Her lips purse. The scrap sits forgotten as Bismuth goes on. “The Pearl we know and love nowadays is a little different... _I_ think having a kid made her softer around the edges… but you didn’t hear that from me.”

That sounds about right. It kind of feels like she’s answering _around_ the question, but you’re happy to take what you can. “What was she like before?”

“She was the _Terrifying Renegade,”_ Bismuth grins, blooming with the dramatics of a curtain call. “Deadly, dashing, one of a kind. You heard about her on Homeworld, didn’t you?”

Ah. Your smile’s... a little flat. “That’s when I was all...”

“Oh, er -- right. Sorry.”

It’s fine. You wave.

“But… yeah. Some stuff’s the same. She could always outwork anybody… I _never_ saw her cut a corner.” She pauses. It’s more thoughtful this time. “Liked to say it gave her an edge in battle, since if _she_ was tired, she knew the poor bastard fighting her must be exhausted.”

The corner of your lip flutters, once. You can see her: hair ruffled and tinged with soot, whipped wicked by a stiff gust on the battlefield, steely-eyed and poised like her blade in-hand as she hunted the next opening... “She must have been quite the sight.”

“Oh, sure. That too. She had to brush off a lot of attention.” Bismuth grins. “Some she had to be a little more, uh, _direct_ with to get the message.”

Huh. “Not you, though?”

“Nah, I took the hint. I backed off.”

“Wha… but…”

Bismuth laughs -- really, truly laughs. It might be the first geniune one you hear from her, deep and sweet. “She couldn’t stand me at first!”

_“What!”_

“Yeah. Rubbed her the wrong way... but, most gems did back then. For a looong time, Pearl didn’t want much to do with anyone except Garnet and… well, Rose.”

Of course. Some quiet settles in you. It’s almost uneasy.

But for her part, Bismuth seems uninterested in lingering there.

“Can’t say I blame her… lot of boulderbrains that forgot we were trying to _change_ things.” She frowns. “And she was the only pearl we ever had in the Rebellion. That I know of, at least...” A long sigh. Her head shakes, brow heavy. “Always keep ‘em under lock and key…”

She still thinks of it as present tense. You understand why. All the time gone. It feels as though it’s always happening to you, inside.

“Kind of involved a story, but anyway. I had to grow on her. So... tough to say when ‘the first move’ even _was._ ” One enormous hand reaches across her chest, maybe to rub a cramp out of her shoulder. “I guess if you’re going by what _counts,_ I reckon that was Pearl? She _did_ kiss me first…”

You can’t believe it. You _can’t._ Forget love, Pearl didn’t even _like_ her! And here’s Bismuth, openly admitting the fact, with a tone that’s almost philosophical.

“But... she’s crazy about you.” The words come out wistful. (You can’t help it.)

“Yeah.” The blush is back. Bismuth half shrugs, grinning down at the counter. She’s remembering. You want to see what she’s seeing. “Took a minute.”

 _A minute._ ‘A minute’ gets thrown around far too often here. From what you can tell, an Earth “minute” is anywhere from 60 seconds to 60 years.

Pearl likes you. Right? Pearl might even _adore_ you. So then... why...

The blanket feels heavier. You sink, a little.

“Hey.” You look up. You can’t bother with a poker face. Hers is soft, watching you. “Just give her some time to sort stuff out.”

You have. You’ve been doing exactly that, all along.

“... feelings are hard for her.”

 _She’s not alone._ You want to spit it.

“What did you do?” you ask. You ignore the pivot. “When she brushed you off.”

“Well, _first_ and foremost, I respected her choice and… yeah. It was off the table.” She shrugs, uneven.

 _First?_ You wait. “... and then?”

The blush you liked is back. “... and, uh... made some swords for her.”

… okay, you can’t help it. “You!” You giggle and try to hide it in the blanket. “ _You’re_ the one who gave her all those?”

“Not _all_ of them!… uh, but, yeah, a lot of them.” Sheepish grin, sweet as sunup. “She liked swords. And I liked seeing her have them. It… you know, worked out. And even if not, we would’ve just stayed comrades.” Her face goes solemn, holding up two fingers. “Respect first... swords second.”

“Common mistake, I’m sure.”

“Oh, _total_ rookie move.” She fires you a wink. Then mumbles something about a “damn helmet” before pushing on. “Some gems might look at it and say it’s bad taste. But it’s the best thing I could do with my feelings... to _make_ something. Y’know? Still felt good.”

“Did you ask again?” Even just to see if her feelings evolved?

But Bismuth shakes her head, leaning heavy on one palm. “My cards were on the table. She knew that.” She shrugs, and gives the other a wave. “Things happen when they happen. Not a minute sooner. _Especially_ with Pearl.”

Bitter. Before you can stop it.

Bitter, digging heat crawls into your mouth. Maybe it’ll pop and hiss like the fire.

You keep your voice quiet. But you let a little in. Just a little. “You can come out and say it.”

She looks up, blinking.

“Tell me to clear off. Leave you both alone.” Your fingertips have gone cold. “Go on.”

The fire hums, and snaps. Neither of you move.

Bismuth studies you. You search the lines of her face for anger -- for a wind-up, a bellow of _Get out_. There’s none. Just steady, solemn deliberation. Like she’s searching a new blade for where the balance is off.

“You don’t get it. It ain’t my call.” She takes in a deep, slow sigh. And lets it go. For a moment it’s just her and the fire breathing. “Ain’t yours, either.”

“Don’t worry, I’m extremely aware how little say I have.” It’s out before you can take it back and it’s _hot,_ leaving your mouth. You’re almost glad to be rid of it.

But Bismuth takes it in stride. Her eyes don’t bug and her jaw doesn’t drop. No furrowed brow. She just leans forward over the counter, bracing on her elbows, so you’re nearly of a height. “You got big feelings. Good and bad. Nothing wrong with that.”

She flicks a look down at your gem, even hidden beneath the blanket.

“... you and me both.”

You glance down to hers, too. You can’t help it.

“... but take it from me. If you give up control of how you _act_ with them...” She reaches again for her scrap, but not to slam with her hammer for harsh punctuation, just... for careful inspection. “... you will lose _every._ Time.”

Bismuth wasn’t bubbled by Rose Quartz alone. Your gem twists, remembering. From the fusion. Only the broad strokes... but…

_She could still be in that second bubble._

It’s like Bismuth reads the thought in your eye. She meets your gaze, steady. You’ve only known Bismuth to be steady. And warm, and helpful. It’s hard to imagine her...

… your gem twists again. But not _nerves_ , not... anxiety…

_Guilt._

Oh.

You squeeze the blanket again. “Pearl told you.”

“... Pearl told me some.”

“... ugh.” You pull the whole quilt over your head and try not to move.

And Bismuth lets you. Her laugh is gentle. More padding than actual amusement. “Sometimes we get lucky. Sometimes…”

“Not so lucky.” You would love a little luck. Maybe some of Bismuth’s can rub off. From under the quilt, you mumble, “What should I do?”

You can’t see her, of course. But if you had to guess, you would say Bismuth is surprised by the question. She pauses before answering. “Think of something you can do for her. Something that feels good to do.”

Something for Pearl. Your forehead pinches. “She already _has_ everything…”

“Think small. Small stuff can go a long way.”

 _Small stuff._ All you can think of is the sand.

She goes back to the gentle _tink-tink-tinks_. It’s getting a little _too_ warm under the blanket. You shift, and peek out from a gap.

“... maybe I’ll update her armory,” you muse.

You’ve seen Bismuth blush a few times by now, but this is the first _blanch._ You blow your cover by snorting.

Bismuth recovers and grins. “Oh, so you got jokes, huh? Maybe give her a comedy routine…”

* * *

Pearl was _livid._

It might have been glimpses of the Renegade -- she spoke in terse barks, short and hard as shell casings, but not _aimed_ at anyone. Least of all you. For your part, you had to suppress the little lightshow that wanted to come from your gem as she inspected you for harm. It occured to you that you hadn’t seen each other in weeks: and there she was, orchestrating arrangements (that were restorative in practice but _vengeful_ in tone) with one arm and clutching you close with the other.

It’s the most she’s touched you in so _long..._ and you quietly enjoyed being fussed over. Even now, on the cliffside, more private than the beach... it feels like _before,_ right after you fused.

“ -- and there’s so _few_ of us -- and I’ve always found it to be an especially difficult habit to break in the new ones,” Pearl’s eyes roll, _that’s_ new, “ _that_ hasn’t changed over thousands of years… But we’re going to organize it as a core class within each pathway to graduation. In the case of the crew on the beach, we’re going to tack on a few community hours. The two of us have complete say in how it’s organized.”

Maybe she takes your frown the wrong way, because she hurries to add, “Oh, I know they didn’t mean any harm by it… but nonetheless, it’s something they need to account for and improve upon.”

You don’t disagree with that last point. If anything, the punishment sounds a bit light to you.

But you can revisit later. You -- just want to _enjoy_ , now. Pearl doesn’t cut an angle when you press yourself to her side and rest your chin on her shoulder. She can talk about whatever she likes.

“... Volley.”

You hum.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

Your eye opens. You otherwise don’t move.

_That’s not actually a question, is it?_

“... I’m so happy to see you alright,” she says. Voice soft. “I was just worried.”

You could lie. You could say no, of course not. That she misunderstood. That things came up. She had the wrong idea, you’ve been _fine._

You could do that.

_Think small._

“... I heard you,” you mumble.

“Heard me?”

“You and Bismuth. In the forge.” You nudge a little closer. She doesn’t move away. “... talking about me.”

“Oh.” A gust ambles by, brushing grass against your legs. You feel Pearl’s shoulders sink. “Oh…”

“I’m sorry,” and you kind of are. “I left when you started kissing.”

She clears her throat and flushes. (Stars. You wonder what you might have missed after.)

But she seems to shake the thought, and reaches to pinch the bridge of her nose. “That’s not… oh, no, I’m -- I didn’t explain it well at _all_ that night, I… _ergh..._ ”

“It’s okay,” you lie, because it seems like what’s fair. Even as part of you wants to claw the words back into your mouth. Maybe it’ll make it truer if you say it again. “It’s okay, really. If you don’t want to… date.”

She doesn’t answer. In her lap, Pearl’s hands pull away to fidget.

You want to. To date. Whatever that means. To her, and you. Whatever you come up with. You want to be with her like Bismuth, like the human women. You just want _time_ with her.

 _It’s okay that you don’t want time with me,_ though? That’s too gutting to take. To say. No. No, calm down -- Pearl cares about you. She _adores_ you.

Right?

You squeeze your fingers where her hand had been.

“But…” It must be okay to ask, too. Right? That’s fair… right? “Do you _think_ about me?”

You work hard, you work _very very hard,_ to fit the right tone of voice in. And it must work. Because Pearl goes very still. She goes still, and only moves her eyes to look at you. Wary.

You part your lips; you wet them. You shape your hand over hers again. “I think about _you_.”

The two of you are still close, here, close enough to watch every twitch. Pearl studies your expression as closely as you study hers. “What… what kind of thinking?”

 _Your teeth in my neck,_ you want to say, _And making you shake, making you whine. I think about you pinning me down -- I think about what sounds you make,_ you want to say. You want to hiss it in her ear. _I think about tying you up all tidy in my ribbon and just touching you for hours --_

You try not to smile, or blush, or look away. You _don’t_ look away. You don’t get shy. You hold her gaze and slowly lower it to her mouth.

Then: you pinch your lip between your teeth.

“Oh,” she turns her head -- hand to her cheek. “Oh, goodness.”

“Is that okay?” You squeeze her hand, almost too hard. Maybe that’s why she pulls it free again.

“It’s fine,” Pearl mumbles, and turns just enough that you can see the blue still creeping up her cheeks. “You aren’t doing anything wrong. It’s perfectly -- perfectly natural, you’re adjusting to… and it’s a _good_ thing that you’re in touch with -- with desires independent of service… new things for you to consider in an equitable and reciprocated… and I’m _flattered_ you would entertain, for your first time, _me,_ but I’m… i-it’s altogether --”

She stops short and freezes. Then turns, sharp. “It _would_ be your first time, correct?”

Now you _do_ blush. Your chin dips, and not on purpose. “... not at all.”

It’s the look from earlier in the evening: ferocity. Pearl’s eyes are on you as she feels it, but none of it is _aimed_ at you. _Protect. Protect._

You swallow. “Did Pink never --”

“No,” she bites, and drops her eyes again. Tries to soften her voice. She must feel her own glower. “Not… not with me.”

_Not until Rose Quartz._

You had seen. When you fused. Not much, but enough.

As you watch Pearl in profile, watch the proud jut of her nose and seam of her mouth, her glare… mixes. It’s a different expression entirely. And it’s over you.

“That,” you say. “I don’t like that look.”

“Which?”

“Pity.”

She switches it out for guilt instead. And then turns away. Even like this, you’re struck with how handsome she is. “I don’t mean to. I _don’t,_ ” she piles on, as though you argued the point. “It… should be _equal._ ”

That’s what she’s been doing. Isn’t it? At least a little. Sure, the learning about herself, the connections, and so on. But part of Pearl, too, just… _reveling_ in it. Equal. The choice. The freedom to walk away in as much time as it takes to pull on her jacket. Bismuth, and the human women, and whoever else she wants. On her terms. Her desires. She can pick and choose as she likes.

Anyone but you.

Rose Quartz was her first. And maybe it wasn’t equal enough. Maybe Pearl looks back, now, to when she was so eaten up in love, and sees gaps where they went wrong. Maybe she worries she’ll be the same for you.

Not equal. Not enough. She sees you and thinks _Not ready._

“Show me,” your mouth says. It comes out creaky.

“... show you?”

You try again. You calm your breathing. “Show me?”

Pearl’s confused frown deepens for a moment. Then the lightbulb goes off, _Oh._ She blinks. Her eyebrows pull _high_ \-- _Oh!_ \-- and then crush back down again. “... what do you...”

“A kiss.” You risk it: you shift an inch closer. To her. To Pearl. “Just a kiss.”

You’re pushing your luck. You know. You’re sticking your hand on the hot stove for an encore performance: back in the line of fire for a pull-back, a murmured _Ah, no,_ a termite’s nest in your chest and heated rings stinging round your gem like Lyme's. You know.

But maybe this is all that’s on the table for you. Maybe you’ll just be the neighborhood kid with a crush, trotting behind her heels for the next thousand years. A kiss might be the only thing you can get.

You’ll take it. You’ll take whatever you can.

The moment she gives in -- you see it. The flick of her gaze down to your hand, where your fingers lie laced. Hers curl. A little. _Protect._

“Just a kiss,” she whispers.

Stars. It _worked._

You let your noses brush ( _oh:_ your chest flutters) and lean close. Her breath feathers your cheek and yours hers, you feel it -- you can feel the ripple of her nerves even from this far. And you haven’t kissed in so _long_ , maybe that’s why -- why the cool and the soft, why -- a shiver passes through you in a great sunbursting wave, and another, another, rippling like peeling, stripping the light of you in layers and layers and layers down to what would be the bones.

You might make a sound, that might scare her -- because she turns her chin and presses in some new way, some angle that scatters sparks that short a circuit that disconnects one thought from the next and she gasps, and she’s under you -- she’s a _perfect_ fit, oh -- her shirt rides up and you drag your hips deep to let your gem roll against her skin, let her feel how _hot_ it is --

“Stop,” she gasps, “stop, wait --”

You go still: you lock up at the joints. She’s flushed, full blue to the neck, you should get off of her absolutely, _yes_ , you should -- should let her breathe -- but you can’t move, it feels too good to have her between your thighs (oh, _stars,_ that’s like a lit match in its own box, you’re trembling) --

Another vicious, dazzling shock of desire eats you up from the belly out and you whine, “ _Pearl_ ,” and press down to kiss her again.

Her chin turns sharp and her eyes screw closed and she hisses, “I _can’t._ ”

_Bitter._

You don’t expect anger but it’s there, sudden and sharp as a spasm -- “Why? Because I’m vulnerable?” so _hot_ in your mouth, “Because I’m not _ready?_ ”

“Because _I’m_ not ready,” almost strangled. Her eyes are still wrenched close like you’re some nightmare she’s trying not to remember.

That douses you. All the heat. All the fever. You cool; you calm. And as quick as the anger came, it’s gone again.

“I’m sorry. I,” Pearl takes a big breath, deep. “I know -- I know I’ve been... confusing you.”

No, that’s not it at _all,_ you open your mouth --

“... just let me up, a moment.”

You mumble a sorry. And dredge yourself to move. There’s grass stuck in her hair, now, probably on her back too. You say, “I’m sorry,” again. More clear. A different warmth comes over you, almost… oh.

_Shame._

You’re ashamed. “Sorry,” you say again, quieter.

You let her up. It’s awkward, backing on your knees. You both sit with your legs folded, there, facing one another. Catching your breath. Pearl doesn’t look at you. She hunches as though under some enormous weight… and shocks you by taking your hands in hers. The touch zings your arms to the shoulder.

 _Focus. Listen to her._ But she doesn’t talk. She just traces her thumbs over the backs of your knuckles. It might be a full minute before you realize she’s breathing in time.

When she finally opens her mouth, she sounds tired. “I’ve never been very good at explaining.”

Unless it’s about the tides, or linguistics, or, or, or... But you don’t quip or snark.

_Focus. Listen to her._

“I adore you. I do,” she murmurs, and every piece of you goes taut, “and I hate -- _hate_ to think I’ve made you feel otherwise...”

She started so strong but she dithers. Digging around for... for what, even? You watch her. (Are you dizzy? A little dizzy.) Like she’s half-in, half-out of her gem space, sifting through “F” for _Feelings_.

And you’re frankly reeling from hearing her say it out loud, so maybe you give her a little nudge. That should be fair. Right? “Rose.”

Rose Quartz. Always plodding herself right through the middle of the movie. Blocking the screen, right at the good part. You love Pink, you think. Loved. In your own way. For what it was worth, however you _could,_ then. But you can’t help feeling about _Rose_ how you feel about every other quartz you’ve had to endure.

Maybe the thought is too clear on your face. Pearl sees it. “... I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about her.”

You wipe your expression, as best you can.

The pause holds. Pearl searches you a moment longer. Then she turns, looking back over the cliff, back to the water. Her fingers slowly weave together in her lap, like a _cheval de frise._ “Rose was always there. The whole time. From being Pink Diamond’s pearl in all sincerity, to _pretending_ to be, to... “

“The Terrifying Renegade.”

She smiles. But not much. “Yes… and even that was its own little performance, in a way.” A tinge of tension in her neck. She might be chewing her thoughts, trying to piece them into words that will fit. “But... the entire time, Rose was there. A constant. I… I was never myself _without_ Rose.” _Any_ of her selves. “So once Rose was gone…”

The corner of her mouth drags down. Her chin tucks, too. She’s digging for a metaphor.

“It pulled the rug out from under you,” you offer. “A rude awakening.”

“... what an image.” A sigh puffs through her nose. “Why anyone would do that, I can’t imagine... but, yes. ‘Rude’ is probably the most flattering description available for the effect it had on me.”

You don’t like where this is going.

“Pearl…” You don’t like going for the throat when she looks… this thoughtful. But you need to head this off at the pass. “You know I’m not you. Right?”

She blinks. “What?”

“You’re worried I’m going to latch on the way you did with Rose Quartz and not have _any_ of myself to myself.” And throw yourself into danger until you nearly die and go to pieces a million times, and et cetera, and et cetera.

“... early on,” she says, small. “That... was a _thought_ , ye --”

“I’m a pearl,” slowly, carefully. And a little more loudly than you intend. Who could have _dreamed_ you would have to explain this to her, “but I’m not _Pearl.”_

“Of course you aren’t.” Gentle. Too gentle.

In all the wrong ways. You feel yourself grimace and your voice rises -- you can’t help it but you try to -- “Pearl! I’m not _you!_ I’m not --”

“But I _am.”_

You stare. “... what are you talking about?”

“I’m… I’m all of them.” She gazes to the side of you. Somewhere else. “Pink Diamond’s pearl, and the pearl pretending, and the Terrifying Renegade, and…” Her throat bobs in a swallow. “... and the terrified gem that was there underneath them, all along.”

_You remind me of when I was younger._

When you look at Pearl you see only tireless strength. And grace, and protection. And even all the little snags in her past -- you want to kiss those, too, her pride and her noxious, anxious envy. You’ll take it all.

But you hadn’t considered fragile. She’s never _shown_ you fragile.

The both of you, made to be the weakest thing in the room, made to be so delicate. Pearl’s mastered the art of concealing any whisper of it, even when she shouldn’t. Even when it hurts her to.

A lock of your hair has come loose. Or one must have, because Pearl brushes your cheek to tuck it behind your ear. The touch leaves a sweet incision of sensation. It takes everything for you not to lean into another. “I’m going to keep you safe.”

Oh. Oh, that…

“Pearl,” you --

She pulls you into a hug. Her voice hints at trembling. “... keep me safe, too.”

A younger, softer Pearl. A harsher Pearl. More vulnerable. More frightened, more wild and reckless and lonely. Less kind to herself. Less kind.

What did _she_ need? That younger Pearl. What was missing that she didn’t know? What would Pearl do for her, now, if only she could?

What could _you?_

When you pull back from the hug, you see her. See her in _her._ You peel back her layers, too, of time and selves and nacre. To that younger self. And she’s awake in Pearl, now, hidden quiet as bones, peering out, watching to see what you do.

**Author's Note:**

> \-- it’s true that brown recluses come in clumps but i’ve never actually found one in a drain before. They mostly love woodpiles, boxes, and places that don’t get disturbed often… good motivation to do laundry if you’ve got a pile of laundry on the floor
> 
> \--Steven totally was thinking of Jasper lol
> 
> \--I think fusion affords sooooome mutual access to each gem’s thoughts/info that’s not under lock and key… so like Pearl might’ve let slip about her sword collection or some recent memories when fused with Volley, but not her big fucky secret when she fused with Garnet in Cry for Help
> 
> \--pink pearl in cut-offs is alllllll Chekhov 
> 
> \-- dw they absolutely date eventually lmfao
> 
> \-- in my many inconsistent headcanons pearls on homeworld were objectified to an extent where an unattended pearl is generally approached by other gems with an attitude of “aw sweet, dibsies!”
> 
> \-- The thrift store photographs are WEIRD yes but it’s based on an actual store in my area that has boxes and boxes filled with people’s photos!! It feels extremely voyeuristic and I’m endlessly mystified that folks would just drop them off!!!!
> 
> \-- I know we only saw Pearl control the sand that one time in Giant Woman (and her using it to slosh around ocean water that way is kind of a stretch) but its a cool power and I wish we’d seen it explored more… maybe she helps Bis with glassblowing or something...
> 
> \-- originally there was another scene somewhere in the middle where Pearl runs into Volley again while on a date and Volley fucks with the date all Anthy-like but it didn’t make sense so I took it out (but just pretend all the Anthy dials are turned to 11 for flavor)
> 
> \-- The gem placement thing is kinda-headcanon-kinda-canon but mostly played fast and loose just as a fun framing device. I wouldn’t read too much into it! But I do like the idea of “body gems” have an easier time with adjusting on Earth… which we’ve mostly seen track, I think
> 
> \-- I’m of the belief that Volley’s eye never “heals” and thats ok!! You’re doing great sweetie!!
> 
> \-- amethyst is not on the tenure track


End file.
